I am a belly dancer and student
at New York University. In September 2001, I took a dynamic course called Major
Twentieth Century writers under the tutelage of an inspiring, creative, "brainiac"
instructor, Julia Keefer, a.k.a. Professor "Evergreen." The course
focus was the exploration, literary analysis and enjoyment of global twentieth
century literature. We were to read a book each week and write about the literature
in the voice of a chosen historical alter ego. We were encouraged by Professor
Evergreen to be creative and take our alter ego on a journey through the literature.
Then September 11th happened and the course focus changed to include the impact
of terrorism. I chose Parween al-Shah as my alter ego, a youngAfghani refugee
woman in her twenties. She is my creation and so is this mix of prose and poetry
inspired by literature and the events of 9/11.

This is Parween al-Shah's first
reaction to the literature, Anchee Nin's "Red Azalea."

WHITE JASMINE and RED AZALEA

by Parween al-Shah

9/29/2001

My name is Parween al-Shah. I am from Afghanistan. I fled to the U.S. in 1998,
after the death of my mother. The Taliban mullah killed her. They shot her
legs off because her ankles became exposed under the burqa. She bled to death
in the street. I was nineteen years old. My father had died two years before
by stepping on a land mine. My relatives helped me escape through Pakistan
and a few months later got me into the U.S. I live with my Aunt and Uncle
in New York. I have worked very hard to improve my English and am very happy
to be attending school here. My mother was a teacher. She insisted on a strong
education for me. When the Taliban prevented us from going to school, my mother
ran some underground classes. She exposed me to as much knowledge as she could.
She was so wise and beautiful. She always smelled of sweet jasmine oil. But
that was before the Taliban came into power. In Afghanistan today wearing
any perfume, makeup or nail polish is a serious crime. They ripped off a womans
entire thumbnail because it had some polish on it. It was brutal madness.

In my American school I read
the book Red Azalea by Anchee Min. I feel like a kindred soul to her. We both
fled our homeland to come to the U.S. We both were taught to believe America
was land of the evil, home of the cowards. How sad that our own countries
distorted the truth and failed us in so many ways. But one comment I must
make about Chinas Communist regime. Communism was a good thing for the
women in Afghanistan. When they took over in 1978, they passed decrees
which forbade forced marriages and set a minimum age for marriage. In 1984
they gave women the right to work so that by 1992, women represented half
the work force. Still, I recognize the oppression, the fear to conform, that
Anchee went through. She started out with such zeal and worked so hard but
eventually had her private struggles with the regime. I felt a deep pain reading
about her special teacher whom she betrayed. I could imagine this was my own
mother, a teacher, exposed and condemned simply for being a good teacher and
a loving person.

Both China and Afghanistan have
some harsh, unyielding terrain. Anchees simple straightforward descriptions
transport you to the land of the Red Farm, so you can feel the leech infested
swamps, smell the pig shit and fungicide, taste the dryness in your mouth
from work that drains the body of every precious drop of fluid. And the same
gnawing hunger pangs that she felt, I have felt. No, its not so different.
But how free for Anchee to be able to work without having to wear a burqa.
I hated the burqa. It is hot and hard to see out of. Many women were killed
in Afghanistan by cars and trucks because their peripheral vision was thwarted.
It was our uniform. It was the uniform of a prisoner. It transformed us into
non-beings, sub-humans. Anchee had different uniforms, but they made her equal
to a man. This I applaud in Communism. Of course here in America the choices
of dress are almost too much to bear. I feel free, yet at times, overexposed.
Flesh and sex are everywhere in America and there was plenty of longing for
flesh and sex in Red Azalea. It shocked me to the core to read such things,
but it was the truth and where else could Anchee Min write this truth but
in America? Women of Afghanistan are denied the sex that Americans and Chinese
know. The Afghani woman is nothing more than a receptacle for mans sex.
We are denied passion and pleasure, no makeup, no jewelry, no plucking eyebrows,
no high heels (because the clicking sound distracts man), we can not work,
can not go to school, our testimony in court is worth half of a mans,
all our public recreation places are closed, no woman can sing in public,
no talking loudly, no laughing, in fact the government doesnt want women
to go out at all. It forces women to stay in their homes with blackened windows.
Anchees China was not as oppressive as Parweens Afghanistan! In
fact, had I not been exposed to American freedoms, I would have welcomed Communist
China in comparison to the Taliban regime.

Still, I would not have been
able to worship my Islam in China, and for that alone I would not want to
be there. Anchees government became a fierce religion with a human god,
Mao Se Tung, as its holy prophet. The dogma consisted of constant songs, slogans,
and sayings all memorized with a feverish, relentless energy. To follow a
human god goes against all the pure beliefs of Islam. I believe in Allah.
But let me make it clear, the Taliban does not believe in the same Allah that
I do. Theirs is an unholy, unloving false allah. Anchees Communist China
had no tolerance for Allah or other religions; only the state, only the revolution
should have the focus. But at least they tried to take care of the poor and
hungry.
I loved reading about Anchees experience on a movie set. I love movies,
especially American movies. But reading is my first love and honestly I couldnt
put this book down. You are drawn so simply yet deeply into Anchees
world. You feel her intense labors, emotional pains, disappointments, frustrations,
unrequited loves and lost youth. It makes me think of my own stolen youth,
my murdered parents and harsh life. Like Anchee, I looked for a mentor, a
heroine to emulate and keep me strong. For her it was Yan, her true Red Azalea.
For me it was my mother, my White Jasmine. They were strong, brave, true,
the love of our lives and they will never be replaced. The Red Azaleas and
White Jasmines inspire women to fight, to rise up, survive, excel, surpass
and contribute to a world that is still mostly the harsh domain of men.

Inspired by "God
Dies by the Nile" and other writings of Nawal el Saadawi.

HEY ARAB GIRL

by Jane Schreck

10/4/2001

Hey Arab girl, come walk with
me,

I'm in sequined wonder of belly
bejeweled glitter.

You are a mystery in veils of
silken modesty.

Can you see through the mesh
panel?

Shall I help you walk...lean
on me if you stumble.

Hey arab girl, lets talk about
sex.

No one can hear our secret whispers.

I'll tell you about multiple
orgasms,

And you'll tell me how a razor
tore out your sex.

Are you still in pain?

Will you ever really know how
much was stolen from you?

He Arab girl, let's go to school.

I can learn anything I want,
politics, religion, sex.

Learning is forbidden for you.

Your mind is open, but your
world is closed.

Can you read? I'll teach you
and free you.

Let's not get caught.

Hey Arab girl, how do you see
me?

Am I an inspiration or an abomination?

Am I free or am I an infidel?

I am afraid FOR you and you
are afraid OF me.

Don't be.

I am your sister.

An alter ego on Chinua Achebes
Things Fall Apart

Things Fall Apart, But Are
Always Replaced

By Parween al-Shah

10/13/2001

I have no sympathy. No, not really. Onkonkwo, the protagonist
of Chinua Achebes Things Fall Apart, doesnt garner the same emotional,
empathetic reaction I usually have for the plight of fictional protagonists.
My feelings usually flow like a running tap, but the more I got to know Onkonkwo,
the more I turned off my emotions. The passage from page thirteen illustrates
why:
Onkonkwo ruled his household with a heavy hand. His wives, especially
the youngest lived in perpetual fear of his fiery temper, and so did his little
children.
Can I feel sorry for a man who terrorizes his women and children? This issue
is too close and familiar to the domination, repression and fear I experienced
in my former days living under the Taliban. Different degrees of severity,
it could be argued, but severe nonetheless. I had a gleam of hope early on
in the story when I learned that the Umuofia worshipped goddesses. Surely
such a culture would hold women in high esteem. They dont. It is only
wrong to beat a woman during Peace Week; every other time its perfectly
acceptable to beat women. The violent and explosive Onkonkwo regarded his
three wives and women in general, as foolish creatures.

I am starting to question
religion, my religion. God, Allah, Moses, Jesus, Mohamed- what difference
does it make? In all three of the major religions today woman is second- class.
The Supreme Being is a male, man creates the dogma, man studies the texts,
and all the major leaders are men. Male interpretation of male writings dictate
to the female, telling her what her place is, which is always lower than the
males. The inequality, the suppression, the pain that women experience
are explained and justified by the story of Adam and Eve. Too bad ladies,
Eve ruined it for you. Well I dont accept this anymore, and now I will
be labeled blasphemous.
The author does not portray the female characters as having a strong influence
in life. We dont hear from the female point of view. They exist in the
story only as far as they relate to the men. They are worthy only to the degree
of their obedience and beauty. There are no true heroines described. The only
importance they had was if a male favored them over other women. Onkonkwo
admired his daughter but never stopped bemoaning the fact that she wasnt
a son. I cant read this story as objectively as my alter ego, Jane.
She is an American. She hasnt suffered like the Afghani woman has. She
can be empathetic, supportive, but she cant really know what its
like. So much of her freedom is taken for granted. I am having trouble being
an objective observer to this story. I am ignoring literary merit or cultural
exposure. I simply cant get beyond my life and myself. In my life, things
already have fallen apart, and I am trying to put them back together.

Towards the end on Achebes
tale, things do fall apart. Onkonkwo falls apart. The white man, another man
comes in and disregards and disrespects an entire culture. You know what I
say? Big deal. One group of men takes over another. Testosterone vs. Testosterone.
War upon War. Man vs. Man. Things fall apart but some other group of potently
aggressive men will always replace it. Umuofia, America, Afghanistan: we women
stand by and watch and wonder. How will their actions affect us? Will one
form of suppression for women replace another? Umuofia beatings, Taliban murder,
American sexual objectification, pick the abuse du jour. What difference can
we possibly make if our voice isnt heard, our nature always yielding,
our focus on surviving, attempting to escape physical or emotional pain or
death? The men will go on conquering in spite of what we say or do, with a
primal need that overtakes all others. Well let them battle it out then. Let
them fight, kill  and like Onkonkwo, let them all hang themselves.

Inspired by Aldous Huxleys
"Brave New World"

SUSIE ON THE MOON WITH AMETHYST

(Sung to the
tune of the Beatles Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds)

By Jane Schreck

9/22/2001

Picture yourself in a strange helicopter
With Alphas and Betas
From embryo pies.
Somebody calls you with synthetic music,
A girl with pneumatic green eyes.
Sweet orgy-porgies and obstacle golf,
Feelies and hypnotic dreams.
Look for the girl with the moon in her eyes
And shes yours.

Susie on the moon with amethyst.
Susie on the moon with amethyst.
Susie on the moon with amethyst. Ohhh, ohhh.

Travelling down on a Bombay Green Rocket,
With brachycephalics
in Epsilon style.
One gramme or two grammes will keep you quite jolly,
And oh so incredibly high.
Singing and praising the almighty Ford.
Conditioning free will away.
Look for the girl with the moon in her eyes
And shes yours.

Susie on the moon with amethyst.
Susie on the moon with amethyst.
Susie on the moon with amethyst. Ohhh, ohhh.

Picture yourself in a world thats so tidy,
Where happiness lives and truth has to hide.
Somebody calls you with changing aromas,
The girl with pneumatic green eyes.

Susie on the moon with amethyst.
Susie on the moon with amethyst.
Susie on the moon with amethyst. Ohhh, ohhh.

Susie on the moon with amethyst.
Susie on the moon with amethyst.
Susie on the moon with amethyst. Ohhh, ohhh.

Others will see Joyce Carol Oates
novella, "Black Water," as a fictional version of a real life American
political drama. For me, it is a metaphor for my life. The story reads like
a dream and dreams are subject to interpretation, prejudiced and tinted by
perceptions and life experiences. I felt rather than read my way through this
dark and deadly dream sequence. We all identify in some way with art or literature.
Black Water was my own bad dream. So I will analyze this book as if it were
mine alone to decipher.

In dream semiotics a car symbolizes
your life and it is very important to note who is driving. I was the girl
in the car. I wasnít driving. I wasnít in control. As a Muslim woman I have
never been in control of my life. The men control our lives, so it doesnít
surprise me that in my black water dream, a man is driving the car, the symbol
for my life. As an Afghani woman I was plunged into the darkness of the veil
and to the status of subhuman just as I plunged into the dark black water.
Water represents many things but mostly emotions. And what is the emotional
state of the water in this dream of mine? Fear, sorrow, despair and rage mixed
with the acid rain of Taliban oppression; an evil mixture of the murky ideals
of a male dominated religion, the slimy, dark deeds of man, fetid rotting
hatreds and thick prejudices. It is this black water that suffocates and fills
up the wrecked car, my wrecked life as I struggle to breathe, as I struggle
to stay alive.

The man driving is an embodiment of
all men, my father, my uncles, the mullah, the Taliban and the American men.
It is fitting that in this dream he appears as an American because I live
in the U.S. now. The American driving the car is all friendly and nice at
first, very attractive, very political but he knows how to get himself free
from the sinking car/deathtrap. He steps on me when it is in his best interest.
And then he abandons me. The American abandoned the Afghani woman when the
Taliban first took over my country. It wasnít in his best interest to worry
about a mere bunch of women, especially Muslim women. And now that ignorance
has cost the lives of many innocent Americans who for the first time are experiencing
the terror of having bombs dropping on their homeland. Welcome to my world
America. Now it is in Americaís best interest to stop the murderers of my
beloved mother.

The marshes represent those things
that hold a person down, things that literally ìbogî you down. The bridge
before the dangerous curve can represent two Freudian ideas, one is that of
the male sex organ or something that brings one to death. Both are appropriate
for the story and for my own dream. The Arab man cuts out womanís sex, denies
her pleasure, covers her up and tries to suppress sexuality. The American
man exploits womenís sexuality with the bombardment of overtly explicit visual
imagery and over preoccupation with sex. They are two sides of the same coin.
The image of the bridge is this sexual representation in my dream and something
that leads to my death. Do the extremes of sexual suppression or exploitation
ultimately lead to the death of the female psyche? I have only known these
two extremes having lived in Afghanistan and in America. Where will I find
balance and peace? Not in my black dream of death.